Chapter 29 - Carl
CARL
The late morning light filters through the lodge’s massive windows, casting long shadows across the rustic wooden floors.
I settle into the leather armchair by the stone fireplace, wrapping my hands around a steaming mug of black coffee.
The fire crackles softly, filling the quiet space with warmth.
From my vantage point, I watch Trisha move around the main room, her dark hair catching the golden light.
She’s pulled it back into a loose ponytail, but rebellious strands frame her face as she examines a box from storage. Even in simple jeans and a cream sweater, she’s breathtaking.
She pulls out strings of twinkling lights, testing them at a nearby outlet.
When they illuminate, her face lights up with genuine joy, and something tightens in my chest.
At forty-eight, I should know better than having these thoughts about a woman young enough to be my daughter. But there’s nothing fatherly about what I feel when I look at Trisha.
She emerges with a small artificial Christmas tree, struggling with its weight as she maneuvers it toward the coffee table.
I set down my mug and stand. “Need some help with that?”
She looks up, slightly breathless, a strand of hair falling across her cheek. “I’ve got it, but thanks.”
Before I can reach her, the front door swings open, letting in cold air along with a delivery driver pushing a hand truck loaded with boxes.
“Delivery for Trisha Johnston,” the driver calls out.
Trisha hurries over, signing the electronic pad.
The driver unloads an impressive pile of boxes before heading back into the cold.
She rushes off and returns from storage with a smaller hand truck, attempting to stack the towering boxes.
“Trisha.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Let me help you with those.”
She pauses, one box balanced precariously. “I can manage—”
“I know you can,” I interrupt, stepping closer. Close enough to catch a hint of her perfume, something light and floral that makes my pulse quicken. “But you don’t have to.”
For a moment, we stand there, the air between us charged with something I’m not ready to name.
Her dark blue eyes search mine, and I wonder if she can see the hunger I’m trying to keep buried.
Finally, she nods. “Okay. Thank you.”
Together, we load the boxes and make our way across the snowy path to her cabin.
Inside, the warmth envelops us immediately. The space is cozy and feminine, with soft throws and scattered candles.
We unload the boxes onto her dining table, and I lean against the kitchen counter. “So, are you going to tell me what’s in all these boxes?”
She grins, something almost mischievous in her expression.
“Oh, you’re going to love this.” She opens the first box and pulls out what can only be described as the ugliest Christmas sweater I’ve ever seen.
It’s bright red with a reindeer that looks like it’s been hit by a truck, complete with googly eyes and a pom-pom nose.
I groan. “Please tell me those aren’t for the team.”
“Oh, but they are.” She’s practically bouncing with excitement, pulling out sweater after hideous sweater. “It’s Christmas, Carl. We need some fun.”
She opens another box, revealing a sewing kit and Thunderwolves patches. “I’m going to sew these onto each sweater. Make them official team ugly Christmas sweaters.”
“You’re really going to make us wear these?” I ask, picking up one with a light-up Christmas tree.
“Absolutely.” She threads a needle with practiced ease. “And you’re going to help me sew on these patches.”
It’s not a request, yet I find myself settling into the chair across from her.
She hands me a needle and thread, along with a navy blue sweater with a simple snowman design.
We work in comfortable silence, the only sounds the soft whisper of thread through fabric and occasional crackles from the fireplace.
There’s something oddly intimate about the domestic scene.
“Carl,” she says eventually, not looking up from her work. “I know this situation is…complicated.”
I pause, my needle halfway through fabric. “What situation?”
She looks up then, her dark eyes meeting mine. “You know what I mean. With Jake and Ash and…everything.”
The elephant in the room. I’ve been trying not to think about it, trying not to let jealousy eat me alive every time I see her with one of them.
“I don’t judge you, Trisha,” I say finally. “You’re a grown woman. You can make your own choices.”
“But it bothers you.” It’s not a question.
I set down the sweater and lean back, studying her face. “What bothers me is that I’m old enough to be your father, and I can’t stop thinking about you in ways that are anything but fatherly.”
The admission hangs between us, raw and honest. Her cheeks flush pink, but she doesn’t look away.
“Age is just a number,” she says softly.
“Is it?” I lean forward, elbows on the table. “Because sometimes I feel like a dirty old man for wanting you the way I do.”
“You’re not old,” she whispers. “And you’re definitely not dirty.”
The air between us crackles with tension. Without thinking, I reach across the table and brush that rebellious strand of hair from her face.
Her skin is soft as silk beneath my fingertips, and when she leans into my touch, I’m lost.
I stand, moving around the table to where she sits.
She tilts her head back to look at me, lips slightly parted, and I can’t resist any longer.
I cup her face in my hands and lean down, pressing my lips to hers.
She tastes like coffee and something sweet, something uniquely her.
When she sighs against my mouth, I deepen the kiss, my hands tangling in her hair.
She stands, pressing her body against mine, and I can feel the heat of her through our clothes.
“Carl,” she breathes against my lips, and the sound of my name in her voice nearly undoes me.
I back her against the kitchen counter, my hands roaming over her curves.
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I can feel her heart racing against my chest.
“God, Trisha,” I breathe against her neck, my voice rough with want.
My hands slide down to grip her waist, lifting her easily onto the counter.
She gasps at the sudden movement, her dark blue eyes wide with desire as she looks down at me.
I capture her lips in a searing kiss, pouring all my pent-up desire into it.
My hands find the hem of her sweater, sliding underneath to feel the warm silk of her skin.
She arches into my touch, trembling beneath my hands.
“Are you sure?” I ask, my voice hoarse. I need to hear her say it.
“Yes,” she says without hesitation, her hands already working at my shirt buttons. “I want you, Carl.”
Her confession breaks the last of my restraint.
Together we work to remove our clothes, hands desperate and urgent.
When she’s finally bare before me, I take a moment just to look at her. She’s breathtaking.
I lift her back onto the counter, positioning myself between her thighs. The feeling of her bare skin against mine is overwhelming.
“I want to taste you,” I murmur against her lips, and she nods eagerly.
I kiss my way down her body, paying special attention to her breasts, her ribs, the soft skin of her belly. When I reach the apex of her thighs, I look up at her, meeting her dark eyes.
“Beautiful,” I whisper, before lowering my head to taste her.
She’s sweet and musky, and I groan against her as I explore her with my tongue. She gasps, her hands fisting in my hair, holding me to her as I work her with my mouth.
“Oh god, Carl,” she moans, her hips bucking against my mouth. I continue until she’s trembling on the edge.
“Come for me, Trisha,” I command against her, and she does, crying out my name as she falls apart beneath my tongue.
When she’s recovered, her eyes are dark with renewed desire. “I need you inside me,” she says, her voice husky.
I stand, positioning myself at her entrance. She’s so wet, so ready for me, and I have to grit my teeth to maintain control.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
“Yes,” she breathes, wrapping her legs around my waist, pulling me closer.
I push into her slowly, watching her face.
She’s tight, so tight, and the feeling of her surrounding me is almost too much. When I’m fully seated inside her, we both pause, breathing heavily.
I start to move, slowly at first, then faster as she meets my rhythm.
Soon we’re moving together in perfect synchronization, the kitchen filling with the sounds of our lovemaking.
“Yes,” she gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders. “Just like that, Carl. Don’t stop.”
I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. I can feel my climax building, but I want her to come with me.
I reach between us, finding her most sensitive spot with my thumb, circling it in time with my thrusts.
“Come with me, Trisha,” I growl, my thrusts becoming erratic.
“Carl!” she screams, her body convulsing around me as she comes. The feeling of her climaxing around me pushes me over the edge, and I follow her with a hoarse shout.
We stay locked together for long moments, both breathing heavily. Finally, I pull back to look at her, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“That was…” I start, but words fail me.
“Perfect,” she finishes, her eyes soft and satisfied.
I help her down from the counter, both of us still unsteady as we help each other dress.
She leans against me, and I wrap my arms around her, holding her close.
A sharp knock at the cabin door startles both of us.
I step back, giving her space, my body still thrumming.
She moves to the door, her hand hesitating on the handle for just a moment before she pulls it open.
Standing on the other side, his face dark with anger, is Trent.